Mister of Dicks and the boys like to sing at the bar.

fig.982) In pencil or rough, the champ ditches their squabble and blows.

The lights are out and the planes won't land. The world is as flat as it's always been. But it's a rhetorical flat. Or maybe it's baby flat, a flat left over from when it was very young. Now there's a little bit of it everywhere but it's been broken up in the wind. "Everything is everything and it's all at the top of that hill. Water is everything and it's on top of that hill. Food is everything and it's on top of that hill too. They're going to take my house, my land, my car everything if I can't get to the top of that hill." The sign's broken, it won't spin around anymore. Inside there's a television that's on.

Clean and pressed into the service of a hotel that can't be stopped. At first you seem goodly in your suit made of iron beneath that one of old fish and then there's king's lather even lower still. Are you waiting for your train. Are you waiting to cleave the light before you. Or are you waiting for that cross to wilt beside your rosy old mop, Mopsy. Meaning Mopsy the mop."

You'll answer to anything won't you, Mr. Richard of Dicks? You're happiest when you hear yourself being addressed as the idle fart, that olde breeze of the pants or just Sir Pasture-Sack. A broken sack is more like, with all your quiet teeth in that mouth, you stand waiting. But I'm watching you as the piss runs down my leg. I'm watching and shouting, "Yes, I've gone to gold indeed sir. I have, I have!"

I know it's alright, I do. the old ford pulls out onto the road where it bounces twice and disappears down into the rainy line of scrub prairie, matt and burr and all. Born priapic with a scandal of bruises, Snow White is over for dinner tonight while Granny is getting more and more gold in her gray. The ax in the corner won't shine. Draped as it is in sheets of plastic, covered with dew.

As brothers go, they say. Then they begin to sing and again. One at a time and then each one it seems is a little more weary than the troubadour before, "It's alright."

Still, their monologue reminds us of rolled tin that's been beaten into stiff sheets. They're like warm wood shavings left beside the clank of an iron stove when the open window, in the winter time plays above the cat that's by the door. Goodbye Nelson, Lefty and Charlie T. I know you'll ace your exams wherever you get to.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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